Sympathy
by hell-whim
Summary: Step. Swing. Cut. Merry was getting good at this. (AU, one-shot)


**Title: **Sympathy

**Author:** freak-pudding

**Summary:** Step.  Swing.  Cut.  Merry was getting good at this. (AU, one-shot)

**Disclaimer: **Damn, knew I forgot something the first seven times I uploaded this!  It's not mine, I'm not making any money, so please don't sue me!  Besides, I'm dead broke, so you'd get nothing.

**Author's Note:** Honestly, this one's way out from leftfield.  I have no idea what has been going through my mind lately, but this is just one little piece that I had to share.  It started when I found the poem "Sympathy" by Paul Laurence Dunbar in my English book.  This little one has been eating my brain for about three days, and it had to come out.  This is only my second published LotR fan fiction, and it might be more movie-verse than book-verse, but I think this one can go either way.  And, again, this is not slash in anyway, shape, or form.  Hell, it's not even a romance!  And it's PG-13 because PG & G make me feel lame.  Also, many thanks to UnDeadGoat for finding my little mistake and prompting me to fix a few others!  XD

For reference:

**Sympathy** by Paul Laurence Dunbar

I know what the caged bird feels, alas!  
When the sun is bright on the upland slopes;  
When the wind stirs soft through the springing grass,  
And the river flows like a stream of glass;  
When the first bird sings and the first bud opes,  
And the faint perfume from its chalice steals—  
I know what the caged bird feels!

I know why the caged bird beats his wing  
Till its blood is red on the cruel bars;  
For he must fly back to his perch and cling  
When he fain would be on the bough a-swing;  
And a pain still throbs in the old, old scars  
And they pulse again with a keener sting—  
I know why he beats his wing!

I know why the caged bird sings, ah me,  
When his wing is bruised and his bosom sore,—  
When he beats his bars and he would be free;  
It is not a carol of joy or glee;  
But a prayer that he sends from his heart's deep core,  
But a plea that upwards to Heaven he flings—  
I know why the caged bird sings!

- - -

            Step.  Swing.  Cut.

            Merry twitches almost unnoticeably and smiles at his grasp of the rhythm.

            Step.  Swing.  Cut.

            Two down, seven thousand to go.  But it is all right.  Because Sam is there.  And Sam always helps.

            "Warm today, isn't it, Sam?"

            The other hobbit stands, stretching from the accustomed stoop of their work.  Hours spent in the blistering sunlight, bent nearly double, takes a great toll on a hobbit's posture.  He wipes his sweaty brow with one thinned, dust-coated hand and surveys the wide, burnt field.

            Choking dust billows in the persona of desert demons swirl upwards on the horizon, blocking a clear view of the other workers.  Sweat trickles down Sam's face, running in muddy little rivers across the gaunt valleys of his cheeks.

            "Sure is, Mr. Merry.  Good thing we're in the shade, then?"

            Merry snorts but makes no reply.

            Step.  Swing.  Cut.

            The ankle chain pulls on his foot, stilling Merry's rhythm for a half-beat.  Sam scrambles up swiftly, apologizing profusely for his slip.  Merry says nothing, only picking his little axe back up and steadily slicing through the slender tree trunk.

            He grasps the soft, almost spongy trees about a foot from the ground, where they are the thinnest.  He marvels at how he can fit his whole hand around these trunks now, and Merry knows that next year's harvest will be meager.

            Step.  Swing.  Cut.

            When the meaty Uruk patrols growl out the mid-morning rest, Merry flops down right where he is.  He doesn't care anymore about the searing dirt or the smelly grime that gets into every part of his body.  He wonders for the millionth when he last bathed and begins to realize that he doesn't care about that any longer.

            The paltry food rations for the day are doled out, and Merry asks Sam thoughtfully how long he thinks Pippin would have lasted in the fields.  Sam's face darkens at the mention of their friend.

            "Don't talk about that, Mr. Merry," he says. "Just don't talk about them."

            Merry shrugs nonchalantly and takes a rather large bite out of the apple in his hand.  When he was a little boy, Merry loved to go apple-picking with his cousins.  The red fruit, fresh from Farmer Maggot's orchard, was so tart and juicily sweet with every bite.

            With disgust, Merry stares down at the scrap of food in his hand.  It hardly qualifies as food; a wrinkled, leathery skin stretches over soggy rotted interior.  But it's all they have, so Merry enjoys it while it lasts.

            Step.  Swing.  Cut.

            No one is working now, but Merry still counts out the beat in his head carefully.  It keeps him sane and dangerously lucid.  Even if only for a few more days.

            Step.  Swing.  Cut.

            Hundreds of miscellaneous bodies lie in exhaustion around them.  Merry wagers that most are Men and Hobbits, but sprinkled throughout are an occasional Elf or Dwarf.  Many of the latter were slaughtered last harvest, so Merry tries not to subconsciously look for Gimli or Legolas.

            It is unlikely that either are at Orthanc, anyway.

            "Hey, Sam."

            "Yes, Mr. Merry?"

            "Where were Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli taken?"

            Sam sighs, obviously annoyed that his earlier warning is being disregarded.  But such is as it has always been with the younger hobbit.  He sits down next to Merry, shielding the younger hobbit from some of the scorching sun beams.

            "They were rounded up, Mr. Merry.  With the Lady Éowyn, and King Théoden, and the rest of the people of Rohan.  Don't you remember?"

            "Yes, I do."

            Merry stretches out on his back, cupping his hands loosely behind his head.  He stares up at the amber-colored sky and imagines that the nonexistent clouds are making comical shapes.  One reminds him of Pippin, and he speaks again.

            "Pip wouldn't have lasted long out here."

            "No, Mr. Merry.  I don't think he would have."

            Merry settles back into the loose dirt and remembers.  He closes his swollen eyes and vaguely recalls standing in this very spot when it was still a lush, verdant forest.  When the wonderful Ents still lived.

            Step.  Swing.  Cut.

            Had it truly been so many years?  Merry lost the count somewhere around five months in Saruman's dungeons, and he had never really started it again.  Anguished hours blended into nightless days, days into fathomless weeks, weeks to dead months, and months to empty years.  He tries to remember when Frodo died and realizes that it could be anywhere from decades to seconds.

            He lifts his head quickly, looking around him.  It only matters that Frodo isn't there.  Just like Pippin.

            "Sam?"

            "Yes, Mr. Merry?"

            "Why did Frodo die, again?"

            Sam opens his mouth to reply, but the tears in his eyes flood and spill over.  He sits sobbing for a moment, and Merry stares soullessly at him.  He is beyond grieving now.

            When Sam has calmed, Merry is still staring at him.  Sam looks away into the rising scarlet sun and thinks of an answer.

            "It… it just got to be too much, I suppose.  He felt awful guilty."

            There is a sniff, and Merry briefly considers offering his hand for Sam to wipe his nose on.  But he knows that the sarcasm would not be well received, so Merry stays silent.

            "'E always felt somehow that he could have stopped all of this.  Felt like if he'd just listened to me, the Orcs'd never have gotten the Ring from him in Cirith Ungol.  And maybe if he'd never sent me away, I'd have been there to stop that nasty ole Shelob from stingin' him."

            "And maybe if stupid old Bilbo had died fighting Smaug, we'd never be here," Merry finally says.  He glances up at Sam and smiles.  It is cheerless, but it does its job.  Sam stops blubbering.

            "Mr. Frodo always blamed himself."

            "But that's not why he died."

            "No, Mr. Merry, it's not."

            "Then stop lying, Sam.  The Gaffer always hated when you lied."

            The mention of Sam's father is too much, and he dissolves back into tears.  Merry resettles himself and searches for a new place to bite on the apple.  He selects a small stretch of skin that looks almost a sickly emerald if he squints his eyes just right.

            Step.  Swing.  Cut.

            The selfish part of Merry is jealous of Pippin and Frodo.  And if he is honest with himself, it's mostly Pippin.  Frodo worked the fields once, chained to Sam's left ankle.  But then the work had gotten too much, and the pain of remembering and regretting overwhelmed him and took the weak hobbit by surprise.

            "It was a real shock though, wasn't it?  When Frodo just fainted in the middle of cutting, I mean."

            "Yes, it was, Mr. Merry."

            "And the Uruks made us keep going, keep draggin' his body through the dirt as we worked."

            Sam shudders in the silence after that statement.

            "Do you think he suffered?  Or do you think he died straight away?"

            Sam glances up, looking slowly around at the heat waves rising on the horizon.  The dun-colored field is filled with small puffs of dust clouds, signaling that workers are lying, some in a swoon, on the ground there.  Sam looks into the sky and finally turns back to Merry.

            "I don't know, Mr. Merry.  I do hope he died straight away.  I'd hate for him to have to suffer so…"

            Sam trails off thoughtfully, and Merry tries to stretch his legs.  It's to no avail, though, and mostly due to the chains binding Merry's left ankle to Sam's right.  There is an empty pair of manacles beside Sam that the Uruks never bothered to get rid of after Frodo died.

            Step.  Swing.  Cut.

            Though the unselfish part of Merry was happy that Pippin had died in the tower.  He had only had to suffer for a few days.  Merry tries to imagine that it was Saruman's beatings that finally destroyed his favorite little cousin, but in truth it was the Palantír.

            Saruman had grown frustrated by Merry and Pippin's loyalty to their friends quickly.  He had wanted to break them himself and secure an opportunity to seize the Ring.  But neither hobbit was yielding, and then he had revealed his worst weapon.

            The Palantír was no more than a simple obsidian glass ball, but terror had gripped Merry's heart when he first saw it.  And that filthy Saruman had made Pippin touch it first.

            One of the few successes in Merry's short life is his blocking of the memories of watching Pippin and the Palantír.  He didn't have to remember, and he knew he never would.

            Step.  Swing.  Cut.

            They had been thrown unceremoniously back into their dungeon that night, like so many other nights previous.  But this time, Pippin hadn't edged over to be near to his cousin.  He just lay silently where the Uruks had thrown him.  Struggling with his injuries, Merry had crawled to the little one's side, turning him on his back.  Big, silent tears streamed down the paled, dirty cheeks, and the olive green eyes were blank and unseeing.

            _"I want to go home, Merry."_

            "I want to go home, too," Merry whispers quietly.  Sam glances at him, but says nothing.  He knows what Merry is remembering.  He knows that Pippin never heard his beloved cousin's reply.  He knows that Merry spent the next several months completely alone.  He knows what it felt like to lose his best friend.

            Step.  Swing.  Cut.

            _Still,_ Merry reasons, _some part of you clings to that hope that everything is just one big, awful dream._

            There's another derisive snort as Merry looks around himself.  Some dream.

            "Eh, what's that?"

            "I don't know, Mr. Merry."

            Movement to the North catches the two hobbits' attention.  It is a woman.  Or might be.  Merry can't tell for certain what it is, but above all else he knows that it is female because of its voice.  The skin is burnt from the sunlight, and the hair is matted brown of dirt and red of dried blood, its true color indistinguishable.  And the voice is scratchy and hoarse from lack of use, but still it sings.

_"When I lay my burden down_

_Then I'll be free; I'll be free_

_When I lay my burden down_

_I'll sail with thee, away with thee."_

            She walks as if in great pain.  Her right leg juts forward, until she leans with all her weight upon it.  Then comes her left foot, but it is bent and twisted, and she stands awkwardly on this.  Over and over she struggles, dragging a long chain behind her.

            Merry finds another edible place on the apple and takes a small bite.  The voice rises, and several heads turn to the female's direction.

"_When I lay my burden down_

_You will see; oh you will see_

_When I lay my burden down_

_We'll go to be, and always be."_

            The voice speaks of Elvish nobility, but the gait and bearing are reminiscent of a Queen of Men.  Merry remembers every woman he's ever seen, and each face fits onto this female's.  For all he knows or can remember, this creature could be Arwen or Éowyn, or even Rosie Cotton.  It doesn't really matter.  Sam sits, riveted by the singing.

            Still, the woman struggles on.  She uses her axe as a staff, planting it a foot or so from her body.  Then, the right leg stabs outward, dragging the lame left slowly.  Her voice cracks as the pain of walking weighs in her eyes.

            Step.  Swing.  Cut.

_"When the stars, they fall away_

_I'll be free, oh, I'll be free_

_When the stars, they fall away_

_I'll sail to thee, away to thee."_

            The entire field is staring at her now.  She makes her agonizing way toward the huge guarded gate of Isengard.  It stands but a few meters away, and Merry turns to look at the imposing fortress entrance.

            It is tall, made of thick steel and stout wood.  A company of twenty or so Uruk-hai stands guard upon it day and night.

            "She's no chance at all."

            Merry flops back into his relaxed position on the ground and begins to wonder about the rumors of an Elven holdout in Mirkwood.  Sam had whispered these tales quietly in his ear the other night (whether it was last night or seven years ago, Merry couldn't tell), while they tried to sleep in the rotten-smelling barracks.  Something about the Guarded Palace of Caves…

_"When the sun refuse to shine_

_We'll come to sea, oh to the sea_

_When the sun refuse to shine_

_Peace will be, oh peace will be."_

            Merry reckons that the woman had heard the same rumors.  Maybe she is just tired of being chained to her fellow slaves, deep in oppressive bondage for the Dark Lord.  Or maybe she remembers Gandalf.

            "Eh, Sam?"

            "Yes, Mr. Merry?"

            "When did Gandalf sail West?"

            "I don't know."

            Merry wagers that Sam _does_ know, but doesn't care to interrupt this woman's singing.  He always liked songs.

            Merry remembers hating the wizard for the longest of times.  He believed that it was Gandalf's fault that the Orcs came to the Shire.  But Gandalf was trying to help.  He really was.

            Step.  Swing.  Cut.

_"When we finally come to rest_

_You'll be with me, you'll be with me_

_When we finally come to rest_

_They'll hear our plea, oh our dear plea."_

            After the rape and desecration of Minas Tirith, Gandalf had fled West as fast as he dared.  But he wasn't running away.

            He was going for help.  Gandalf was going to rouse the Valar to help Middle-Earth defeat Sauron.  But he's been gone for a long, long time.  Though, Merry wagers, perhaps it takes the Valar a long while to summon up all their might.  And maybe the Three Hunters hadn't been captured in Rohan, and Legolas had returned to his father and Gimli to his people, and maybe Aragorn was with them.  And perhaps they are marching straight West to rescue their friends in one last, desperate attempt at salvation.

            Merry chuckles this time, disbelieving at his fantasies.  It is like Saruman always said.  Hope is for fools.

            Step.  Swing.  Cut.

_"When I lay my burden down_

_They will see, oh they will see_

_When I lay my burden down_

_We'll leave their sea, oh that black sea."_

            Merry marvels at the way that the dust floating in the air coats his nose and mouth, but does not choke him.  He supposes that it's just his curse.  Always living, never dying.

            "Maybe Pippin would have survived."

            "Maybe, Mr. Merry."

            The woman, though many meters away, draws level with Sam and Merry.  Merry looks and sees the tears running in silence down Sam's cheeks.  He wonders why the other hobbit still cries.

            Merry knows that they are all beyond salvation now, but redemption never hurt anyone.

_"When I lay my burden down_

_I'll be free; then I'll be free_

_When I lay my burden down_

_I'll sail with thee, away with thee."_

            Just as she seems ready to collapse, the staff lurches forward again.  But the Uruks have been waiting for this.

            A tortuous arrow whistles from behind Merry, striking the woman in the side.  She crumples haphazardly into the welcoming dust, staining the umber ground copper with her rebellious blood.  Merry pops the bitter apple core into his mouth, chewing without relish.

            The Uruk-hai rush forward greedily, surrounding the woman's body.  Merry shades his eyes with his hand, turning onto his side and observing the scene with apathetic impassiveness.

            "Sam?"

            "Yes, Mr. Merry?"

            "What was that?"

            Sam wipes his eyes and, with effort, stands.  He looks thoughtful for a moment, and then he smiles down at his friend.  There is a hint of something Merry forgot a long time ago in his voice.

            "That, Mr. Merry, was someone who believed."

            There is silence for a long while after this.  All eyes watch as the woman's body is dragged away, down into the pits where the Orcs keep their filth.

            Then, an impatient horn blows, and they dust themselves off.  Merry remembers the first horn he ever heard and begrudges Boromir his piece of death.

            Step.  Swing.  Cut.

            They return to the familiar rhythm, but Merry is compelled to change it.  And he does.

            It's only a simple hum at first.  A half-learned melody, with most of the notes wrong and the others made-up.  Sam stops for only a second, staring in a delicate surprise at Merry.  Then, he begins to hum as well.

            When the sun hits the horizon, they have memorized the tune.  Feeling a little brave, and with a fool's hope growing in his heart, Merry starts to sing.

_"When I lay my burden down_

_I'll be free; oh I'll be free…"_

*

fin


End file.
